


ME3 - Broken Things

by rprambles



Series: ME - Stages of Repair [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Combat, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rprambles/pseuds/rprambles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In every human heart is a place where you put all your broken dreams. When something doesn't work out, no matter what it may be, you just have to give it up and stuff it in with your broken dreams. And make sure you keep the lid on tight.”<br/>― Sayo Masuda</p>
            </blockquote>





	ME3 - Broken Things

Hira racked the slide back, loading another clip into her rifle. Below, a cannibal roared its twisted battle cry, her scope giving her a bit too close of a look at its gaping maw. She squeezed the trigger, rifle bucking against her shoulder as the target below burst open. In the time it took her to load another clip, three more cannibals had appeared in her scope – and there was a marauder behind them.

This wasn’t going well.

One solo op, she’d decided. Head to an ammo dump, pick up the intel, leave. It was of relatively minor importance, but it needed doing and she had found the time, with the Normandy undergoing maintenance on the Citadel. She’d actually been looking forward to it, something simple and light compared to her usual work. That simplicity had lasted for roughly an hour. She’d been there for six. The Reapers had started in a small trickle; they were expected, and she’d dealt with them accordingly. And then they’d come in droves. That would have been the time to leave, if the first wave hadn’t literally trampled the shuttle.

She glanced over at the makeshift distress beacon she’d rigged up. It was barely strong enough to get past the planet’s orbit, and it probably wouldn’t sound like much more than static. But it was her only shot, seeing as the Normandy wouldn’t be expecting her for another day or so. It was a good thing there were plenty of thermal clips in an ammo dump, she decided as she took out the marauder and loaded yet another clip. A brute had just lumbered into view behind the marauder’s reinforcements, and it wouldn’t surprise her at all if a tell-tale shriek came next.

The next noise she heard, however, wasn’t a shriek, but a low rumble of engines; an unmarked shuttle swung around the compound, pausing a few feet away from her platform, hatch wide open. She activated her cloak and ran for it, jumping across the gap to tumble onto the shuttle floor. The hatch slid shut as she felt the shuttle bank away from the battleground. Hira made no move to stand, choosing to simply lie there and be grateful.

“You alright back there?”

Her eyes snapped open in horror, falling shut again as she dropped her head against the floor. For a moment she wondered if it was still possible to jump out and go back to the Reapers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh she pushed herself upright, brushing the worst of the accumulated muck from her armor. Why, of the entire galaxy, did it have to be him?

“Shit.” There was a brief clatter of buckles coming undone, followed by footsteps. “I hope you’re not dead back there, I-”

Max Shepard came to a sharp halt at the doorway when his daughter looked up at him. Surprise quickly gave way to that flinty bitterness she was accustomed to seeing in his gaze.

“Thanks for the pickup,” Hira muttered blandly.

It took him a moment to answer. When he did, his voice was forcibly cordial. “You’re welcome.”

She sighed and rose to her feet. Exhaustion was settling into her limbs, joints and tendons aching with the effort it took to trudge over to the nearest seat. Max watched her almost cautiously, arms folded across his chest. “Don’t you have a ship full of people who are supposed to keep you from getting killed again?”

“Solo op.” Hira sank into the seat with a relieved sigh. “Wasn’t expecting Reapers in that scale.”

He hummed softly, his tone turning sardonic. “So the grand commander can make mistakes. You’d never know it, watching the news.”

She didn’t respond to that in anything more than a brief frown. “Do you have cleaning supplies?”

Max blinked in confusion. “…yes. Why?”

“Need to clean my armor.”

“While you’re wearing it?”

Now she looked at him, waiting for the pieces to click in his head. He didn’t keep her waiting long. “No.”

“Just step out,” Hira instructed, making a shooing motion with her left hand, her right already working on the seals for her armor.

“Step where, Anahira?”

“The cockpit.”

“Can’t it wait?” Max insisted, sounding rather flustered.

“You want to smell Reaper sludge for the next couple days?”

Max opened his mouth and promptly shut it. After a long moment he stepped into the cockpit with a grumble and she heard objects clunking around.

“Change of clothes, if you have them,” Hira called after him.

A brief pause and then a sharp grumble and more clunking, and then Max returned with a plastic case and a bundle of clothes. “Anything else, your worship?”

“Nothing that’s physically possible.”

He stepped into the cockpit as instructed and Hira set to stripping herself of the armor. Assembling the pieces neatly on the floor, she changed out of the black mesh suit and into the clothes. As expected, they didn’t quite fit, hanging a bit loose off her frame, but the clean cotton was a nice change. Hira reached for the plastic case next, balancing a piece of armor on her knee. Time to get to work.

—

—

He didn’t regret pulling her out of that hole. Not at all. From what he saw, she probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer in that mess. They were both lucky he’d been in the area, had seen the fighting and decided to investigate.

But why did it have to be her in the first place? Even he could see that wasn’t a mission to send the big grand hero of the galaxy on. What had she been doing out there instead of a team of Marines?

He knew better than to ask. She’d deflect, or outright ignore him. Her job, as she put it, was none of his business. Max heaved a sigh, running a hand through his salt-pepper hair. At least she was safe. While he wasn’t exactly happy about their current circumstances, that was something good that had come of this.

His thoughts were interrupted by a growl from his stomach. Max let out a short self-deprecating laugh. It was about time for lunch. But there was the problem of his daughter in the passenger hold, possibly in a state of undress. That was something he could happily die without seeing.

But that was where the food was. Max debated the situation for a moment, then called out, “Are you decent?”

“If I say no, will you stay in there?”

Max scowled. So she was still a pain in the ass to talk to. He took his chances and strode into the passenger hold. “You forget who’s shuttle this is. And that the food’s in the back.”

She didn’t respond to that, focused on her armor. She was dressed, thankfully, and Max let a little of his irritation mellow out as he rifled through the small kitchen. He had a small plate of sandwiches made before it occurred to him that she was probably hungrier than he was. “Er, anything you want? I have sandwiches.”

“That’s fine.”

She went through the first sandwich in three bites. Max left her the plate and made another one for himself. He settled down across from her, watching as she cleaned her armor. She worked quickly, the chest and back pieces already shined and set aside, but it still seemed time-consuming to him. “If you hadn’t joined the Alliance, you wouldn’t have to deal with that,” he pointed out between bites.

She didn’t look up. “And then the Reapers would annihilate everyone.”

He scoffed at that. “Don’t flatter yourself. There’s always someone happy to play hero.”

“Usually the first person to die,” she reminded. “And that wasn’t ego; I’ve been warning everyone about the Reapers for years. Think there’d be a war effort without that?”

Max didn’t respond to that, but his silence seemed answer enough for her. She picked up a different piece of armor. “Would’ve ended up wearing it anyway.”

“Know that for fact, hm?”

She shrugged. “Only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“Wrong,” Max announced firmly and she looked up in surprise. “You used to sing when you were little, you were good at that. What was that song, it was your favorite…” He racked his brain for the words. “And in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.”

His voice wasn’t the best, and she raised a brow in amusement. “See me making a career of that?”

“Not now, no. Back then it wasn’t so much of a stretch.”

The amusement in her gaze vanished, replaced with flinty anger. “Really hate what I am, don’t you?”

Max returned the glare in full force. “I don’t resent you going into the military, Anahira. I resent that you think shooting people for a living is your only option!”

She didn’t respond, just glowered at him. They stayed that way for a long moment, as if frozen in place. Max’s will broke first, gaze dropping as he rose to his feet. “Why is it we always end up arguing?”

“Something you’re good at,” she suggested bitterly, scrubbing her armor a little roughly.

Max winced, the old lingering shame coming to the front of his mind. “…You weren’t supposed to hear.”

It was her turn to scoff. “That makes it better?”

No. it didn’t make anything better. His arguments with Hannah had been heard, and had taken a toll on his daughter. There was no fixing that.

Max retreated to the cockpit, regret and shame clinging to his shoulders. She didn’t stop him.

It was a few hours before he decided to check on her. Just to be sure she was still breathing, he told himself. He half-expected a sharp comment or a glare, but she was slumped against the wall of the shuttle, sound asleep. She looked smaller in his too-large clothes and he remembered that she was barely thirty-four. The frown and lines had mostly faded but there was still age and exhaustion written clearly on her face and his heart panged at the sight.

She suddenly jolted awake and he quickly ducked back into the cockpit. Cowardly, maybe, but he was fairly certain his face was not one she wanted to see first thing. He thought he heard a soft whimper; imagined or not, the noise tore at him. He shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge any foolish thoughts of trying to comfort her. He’d given up the role of father years ago. Trying to pick it back up now wouldn’t help her at all.

They hit the Widow Relay by morning. When he poked his head in to tell her they’d be landing in a few minutes, she was already back in her armor, his clothes folded neatly atop the plastic case. They didn’t say more than two words to each other for the entire descent.

The shuttle settled in the docking bay and Max moved quickly, knowing she’d be on her way out the second the hatch opened. Sure enough, she had already headed into the crowds. He called after her, “Anahira.”

She stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Next time you get it in your head to go on a “solo op”, think twice.”

With a shake of her head, she started forward again, the crowds of the Citadel moving aside for their hero.

“Be careful,” Max whispered when she was almost out of sight.


End file.
